Protecting Plain Jane (18 page)

“Trip,” she begged. “Please.”

“I never want to do anything that makes you look at me with fear in your eyes again. That tears me up inside. I’d rather take a bullet than see you crying or afraid of me again.”

In the raging awakening of desires denied and put on hold for too long in her life, a surprising voice of compassion whispered to her. He’d admitted, not that long ago, that she had the power to hurt him. Joseph Jones, Jr., might be big, bad and bossy on the outside, but inside, her brawny protector had a weakness. And if she’d hidden away from the world for ten long years because she’d felt too weak to face her fears, why should she expect Trip to willingly risk what frightened him the most after only a week?

Charlotte rose up on her knees and took Trip’s face in her hands, looking him straight in the eye. “I’ll tell you if I want you to stop, all right? If I get scared for even one moment—you’ll stop?”

“Yes.” Those eyes never lied.

Neither did hers. “Don’t stop.”

Trip closed his mouth over hers, tunneling his fingers into her hair to hold her lips against his when the force of his kiss pushed her away. Charlotte wound her arms around his neck and held on, opening her mouth to every foray of his tongue, welcoming his every touch.

When holding each other close wasn’t close enough, Trip fell back across the sofa, pulling her on top of him. He kneaded her bottom, branding her through her jeans. Then his fingers slid higher, finding their way beneath her blouse, their calloused exploration striking heat against her cool skin. Her breasts pillowed against his harder chest, the ache in them eased by the contact, then stoked again as his hands began to move her up and down his body, creating a slow, delicious friction fueled by fiery kisses along her jaw and throat.

She was trapped in a torrent of hands and hardness and kisses and heat, with no outlet to ease the storm building inside her. Pressure gathered and heated in the heavy dampness between her thighs. And when her aching need fell open around the treelike hardness of Trip’s thigh, she instinctively squeezed and rubbed, desperate for the release his body promised.

“Easy, honey,” he rasped against her damaged ear, tenderly running his tongue around its delicate shell, arousing nerve endings that had never been touched this way before. “Easy.”

As Charlotte moaned with frustrated need, he sat up, spilling her into his lap. He kissed her swollen lips, apologizing for the unwanted distance between them. His fingers moved to the buttons of her blouse, freeing the top two before peeling the whole thing off over her head so that he could pull her close and kiss her again.

Now she understood. He was delaying what she wanted, not denying her. A quick study in any subject, Charlotte reached for the hem of his T-shirt and tossed it to the floor beside her blouse. While he unhooked his belt and carefully removed his gun and badge to set both carefully within arm’s reach on the floor beneath the sofa, she explored the responsive gasps and moans she elicited when she smoothed her palms across his taut male nipples, pinched one between her thumb and finger, eased its torment by laving it with her tongue.

“Charlotte,” he growled with pleasure, flinching when she tasted the other nipple, shifting beneath her and letting her feel that he was just as powerfully aroused as she was. His hands moved to the clasp of her bra. “Careful what you ask for.”

When the bra disappeared, he covered her with his big hands, squeezing, flicking his thumbs across each pebbled tip, testing the weight that seemed to grow heavier with every caress. Each touch sent a pulse of electricity straight to her weepy thighs. And when he closed his hot mouth over the first hard tip, she cried out his name as a lightning bolt of pure, raw heat sparked deep in her core.

“Trip?” Even as she clutched her fingers behind his head and held his mouth against her to ride out the exquisite torment, she was squirming, seeking, struggling to find that ultimate release his hands and mouth had primed her for. “Trip,” she groaned.

“I know,” he murmured against her breast. “I know, honey,” he whispered against her ear. “I know.”

He reclaimed her mouth in one hard, quick kiss and then put his skilled hands to use, deftly removing the last of their clothes, spreading the quilt beneath them, lying back on the sofa and stretching her on top of him. She nibbled at the edge of his square, unshaven jaw, marveled at the textural differences between her smooth legs and his harder male thighs, worked through an odd blend of excitement and trepidation at the pulsing length of his arousal nudging against her hip—as he pulled a foil pouch from his wallet and tore it open.

“I’m not on the pill or anything,” she admitted, holding her breath and tilting her face up to his, worrying that he might have forgotten he was her first. Trying not to listen to a very old voice that tried to tell her she was plain and brainy and flaky and not the type of woman that a man like Trip would really—

“Shh.” He hushed those doubts, twirling a wild curl around his finger and smiling as if he thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world. “Are you having second thoughts?”

She shook her head. “I never thought I’d be doing anything like this…that I’d want to. But I do.”

He pulled her up to his mouth and kissed her softly, tenderly. “I’ll protect you in this, too, honey. Trust me.”

Charlotte had no idea how many pounds of strength and power were lying tightly leashed beneath her. But she wasn’t afraid. This was right. Out of all the craziness and terror in her life, she knew this one thing was right. “I do trust you, Trip. I do.”

Several slow, deliberate kisses later, and the storm was brewing again. Trip had sheathed himself and rolled Charlotte beneath him. He took the bulk of his weight off her with his elbows and entered her in one long, deep stroke, holding himself still inside her. Squeezing her eyes shut against the initial pain, the initial shock of this ultimate expression of intimacy and trust, Charlotte held her breath.

But he stroked her face, kissed the swell of her breast, kissed her lips, waiting with tender patience for the pain to pass, for her body to adjust to his size, for the pressure to build to an almost unbearable mix of frustration and anticipation. “Trip, please.” She was feverish, panting, ready to burst. “Please.”

“Look at me, Charlotte.” He took off her glasses and set them aside, making one request of her. “I need to see your eyes.”

She opened them wide, looked up into the purposeful determination and caring light she saw in his gaze. Trip nodded and began to move inside her.

And when the love and need became too much for her heart and body to bear, she wrapped her heels behind his thighs and buttocks, wound her arms around his shoulders and covered her body with the weight of his. With the roar of his release, he unleashed the storm inside her and pleasure rained down around them both.

Chapter Twelve

So the eccentric brainiac with the ear-piercing whistle had some distinctly feminine wiles lurking inside her, after all.

It was a dangerous one-two punch straight at Trip’s heart that he was still mulling over as Charlotte nestled closely to his side and snored softly against his chest. She’d made herself as vulnerable to him as a woman could be, giving him the gift of her body and her passion. She’d been so curiously eager, yet so achingly innocent—bold and giving and…trusting.

Twice.

He brushed the toffee curls off her forehead and bent his head to press a kiss to the crown of her hair, grinning at the innate spirit of adventure that Kansas City’s most reclusive heiress had unbottled these past few days he’d known her. An hour after he’d exhausted himself making her first time as perfect for her as he knew how, she’d nudged him awake, whispered a request into his ear, climbed onto his lap—and he hadn’t been able to resist her.

He couldn’t imagine two more different people than him and Charlotte. Yet he couldn’t imagine being without her now.

Feeling her shiver in her sleep, Trip pulled the quilt up over her naked back, snugged her more tightly in his arms and listened to the storm quieting into a steady rain outside. The past few hours had been perfect moments sliced out of time. Isolated from the rest of the world, with thick walls and heavy locks and the weather itself keeping the danger stalking her temporarily at bay, they could talk and cuddle, read to each other and make love. The two of them together could work.

But what about life outside these walls?

What about when his job took him out on a late-night call to any corner of the city? What about when he wanted to take her out and introduce her to his friends and she was so terrified of the outside world that she wouldn’t leave her rooms or this museum? What about when her father compared her PhD with his community college degree, or her trust fund with his government paycheck?

Once the Rich Girl Killer was caught and he knew she was safe, how did Miss Charlotte Mayweather and Officer Trip Jones work?

He wasn’t smart enough to have the answers yet. He only knew that he’d give his life for this woman. She deserved to feel secure in her world and live whatever life she chose to lead.

And he’d give her his heart. If that was what she wanted.

Yeah, she already had that.

If.

T
HE CELL PHONE ON
the desk was ringing.

Trip awoke, instantly alert, instantly aware of Charlotte’s distress as she moaned and squirmed against him in her sleep.

“Make it stop,” she murmured.

“Charlotte?”

Something wet and warm stung his skin. Ah, hell. She was crying. She was dreaming some damn-awful nightmare and she was crying.

Trip sat up, pulling her into his arms and gently shaking her awake. “Charlotte? Wake up, honey. It’s a bad dream.”

“Stop. Make it…”

The phone rang again and suddenly she was awake. She pushed her hair off her face and tugged the quilt up over her breasts. Her eyes were narrowed, searching, as if she was disoriented and surprised to find herself naked, her body tangled up with his.

“Charlotte?”
Please don’t be afraid of me. Please don’t regret what happened. Please don’t give me that look.

She whirled around as the phone continued to ring. “What time is it? Where are my glasses? Is that him?”

“Right here.” He handed her her red glasses, scooted off the sofa and picked up his shorts as he looked at the phone. “It’s almost three in the morning. Here.”

He handed her the phone and she shied away. “Is it him?”

Trip shook his head. “It says ‘Kyle.’”

“Kyle?” Her fear transformed into shock. Her posture relaxed and she reached for the phone, verifying the same name he had read. “Why on earth would my stepbrother be calling me at this time of night?”

Trip quickly dressed and rearmed himself with his Glock and spare 9 mil magazine, not liking the snippets of conversation he could hear on this end of the phone.

“Where? Brush Creek Boulevard and Hazelton. Got it.” Trip laid out her clothes and politely turned his back as she followed his lead and got dressed. “Why did Harper let her leave by herself? I’ll see what we can do from here. Yes, I’ll tell him.”

As soon as she set the phone on the desk beside him, Trip turned to see her zip up her jeans and, button by button, cover up those beautiful curves and the memory of how responsive they’d been to his every touch. He hated the grim line of her mouth that was still pink and swollen from the abrasion of his five o’clock shadow and hungry kisses.

Something was seriously wrong in Charlotte’s world and Trip didn’t waste words. “What is it?”

“Apparently, my stepsister, Bailey, was out on a date. She was driving home in this weather and her car stalled out crossing a flooded street.” She sat to pull on her socks and red tennis shoes. “Either she’s trapped in her car because of the water or she’s scared to get out because of the neighborhood and the blackouts—I don’t know. He said she was pretty upset and hard to understand.”

“She should call 9-1-1.”

Charlotte tied her second shoe and stood. “Kyle did.”

Trip blocked the door. “Then what does he want from you?”

“It’s only a couple of blocks from here. We can get to her before the emergency vehicles or Kyle can. At least keep her company until help arrives.”

“
I
can keep her company. You’re staying put.” He left the office, pulling out his own phone. “Give me the address. As soon as I phone this in to Captain Cutler, I’ll go.”

“She’s
my
sister.” She quickened her pace to hurry after him. “Trip, think about it. It’s the middle of the night, she’s wrecked her car, she’s all alone—you might be a little…scary.”

“Wrong choice of words.”

“On first impression. I meant what I said before. I’m not afraid of you now. Damn it, Trip.” She grabbed his arm and asked him to stop and face her. “Are you telling me you didn’t change your mind about me, too?” She had him there. “You’re probably still not too sure when I’m going to wig out on you next, are you?”

“You’re right. With you, I never know what to expect. I just know it’s going to be interesting.” He liked the idea of leaving her alone and unprotected a little less than he liked the idea of her being out in the open with him, anyway. “Put on your coat. And this.”

He pulled the Kevlar vest from the hook where it had been drying and strapped it around her chest and back.

“We’ll make this as quick as we can. You stay right beside me and do whatever I say the moment I say it. You’re still my first priority, understand?”

She nodded. Smiled. Tugged on his shirt and pulled him down for a quick, surprising kiss. “Thank you. For everything.”

T
HIS WASN’T RIGHT
. Where was the damn dog?

He moved to a different position on top of the Mayweather Museum’s roof and used his scope to follow the couple hurrying hand in hand through the rain. He sat back for a moment, needing time to sort things out.

His plan was to shoot both the bodyguard and the dog. Then Charlotte would be easy to take. She’d trust him dressed like this. With her boyfriend on the ground, bleeding to death, she’d be happy to see him.

He went back to his original position and scanned the back of the SUV. Had they left him there? Was the dog inside the building? It would be easy enough to get inside again, but that would mean changing his plan, altering his timetable. And he was ready to strike. Tonight. His hands itched with the need to close around Charlotte’s throat.

But he’d always been so careful about his plans, so precise. He couldn’t stand details that were out of place.

But the opportunity was here. The time was now. She’d be all alone.

He released his breath, calmed every muscle, picked up his duffel bag and followed.

T
RIP WAS SOAKED TO
the skin and feeling like a rookie again. When Captain Cutler and Sergeant Delgado and even that gung-ho newbie, Randy Murdock, arrived, they’d call him twenty kinds of fool for walking into an exposed, indefensible scene like this one.

If someone wanted to ambush Charlotte, this was the perfect setup. It was a lot easier to be seen than to see from this vantage point. Abandoned streets. No lights for two city blocks. High-rise hotels on one side of the creek and adjacent roadway, two-and three-story shops and apartment buildings on the other—with plenty of open space in between where anyone with bright lights and a four-wheel-drive transport could reach them.

“Are you sure this is Bailey’s car?” he shouted over the roar of Brush Creek hitting the concrete abutment on the underside of the Hazelton bridge and swirling past the silver sports car pinned between the bank and the bridge’s outer wall.

“It looks like it. I don’t know her license plate, though.”

“Stay put.”

He left Charlotte up on the road where the water was only ankle deep and waded into the rushing flood current with his flashlight. Testing each step to make sure he wasn’t washed on down the creek, he approached the bobbing vehicle from behind, gritting his teeth against the abrasive sound of steel grinding against concrete. The water was pushing against his hips by the time he fought his way to the upstream side of the car.

“Is she in there?” He heard Charlotte’s shout like a faint echo.

He shined his light inside the car. “No. It’s empty.”

He swung his light around, peering through the dimness of rain and shadows to see if he could spot any foot traffic on the sidewalks or streets. Deserted. Dead. They were the only souls out on a night like this.

“Is there any way to know if someone else could have picked her up? Her boyfriend, maybe? What the…?” The feeling of dread turned to fury as Trip’s light hit the floorboard beneath the steering wheel. He flipped the steel flashlight in his hand and busted through the passenger-side window.

“What are you doing?” Charlotte shouted.

His eyes hadn’t deceived him. The two-by-four wedged beneath the accelerator told him this was a trap, that the wreck had been staged, that the woman he loved was in mortal danger and he might be too late to keep her safe.

He plunged toward the higher ground, waving Charlotte back to the apartments across the street. “Get back to the sidewalk! I want you out of sight right now!”

“Trip?” She was frightened by his warning, but she was moving.

He stumbled once in his haste to get to her and swallowed a mouthful of gritty water. He spit it out and floated a few yards off course before he found his feet again. “Call your sister right now.”

She had her phone out, was dialing. “Now you’re scaring me.”

“I don’t think anyone went into the water in that car. It’s a setup. Move.”

It
was
a setup. Only Charlotte wasn’t the target.

Yet.

Trip spotted the subtle movement in the darkness on the roof of the apartments. He angled his light and caught its fleeting reflection off the lens of a rifle scope. “Run! Get back to the museum! Don’t stop until that door’s locked behind you!”

He reached for his gun.

But the bullet tore through his shoulder and knocked him back into the rushing water before it ever left his holster.

“T
RIP!”

Stay in the moment. Stay in the moment!

Charlotte stood frozen long enough to see him disappear beneath the surface of the water and for something darker to bubble up in his place. Blood? Oh, God.

“Trip!”

Rain smudged her glasses and tears blurred her vision, leaving her blind to the buffeting assault of noise around her—racing water, drumming rain, distant footsteps, her pounding heart. She needed Trip. Needed to get to him. Needed to help.

What the hell was going on? Was that a gunshot? Was Trip hurt? Was he dead?

She swiped the water from her glasses and scrubbed the tears from her face. She took one step off the sidewalk. Took a second and a third toward the rushing flood. The grinding crunch of crushing metal grated against her eardrums.

Bailey’s car groaned as the rising water freed it from the bridge and carried it silently downstream.

“Oh, my God.”

The water had taken Trip, too. She was paralyzed with fear. Alone. In the open. Trip was gone and she was helpless.

People can change. You want to change. You can do something about it.

Trip’s words from the day of Richard’s funeral rang in her ears. For ten years, she was trapped and afraid—helpless to face the world. In the span of a week, a friend had been murdered, and her nightmares had become a real, living thing. She’d met a man, made love, fallen in love…and refused to lose him.

She could change. She had changed.

Trip Jones had her back. And, by God, she was going to have his.

She pulled out her phone. She could call his captain, Michael Cutler. They were already on their way after Trip’s call. But she’d tell them to hurry. Hurry! Get SWAT Team One here—they’d know what to do. Only, she had no idea what the number was. Idiot. Call 9-1-1.

A doorway opened and closed in the darkness behind her.

Run! Don’t stop!

“Charlotte? Charlotte!”

Someone was shouting her name.

Run!

Charlotte’s body reacted even before her brain fully kicked in. She took off, moving her legs. She stumbled at first, and the weight of the Kevlar threw her off balance and she landed on her hands and knees in the flooding street. But just as quickly as the water soaked through the vest, coat and clothes to chill her skin, she pushed back to her feet. She lifted her heavy wet shoes and jogged, stretching her legs, picking up speed. And then she remembered she damn well knew how to run and took off—splashing, speeding through the dark and the rain.

“Charlotte!”

Don’t look. Run.

One block. Two. Turn.

The floodwaters that covered the sidewalks grew shallow, then disappeared by the time she crossed the street to the Mayweather’s back entrance. Her lungs burned. She was cold. She was scared. She skirted the Dumpster and entered the alley lot.